


Seeing-Eye John

by bilboswaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind Sherlock, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sherlock is still a total asshole, featuring a small case that's literally nothing I just wanted Sherlock to be blind and awesome, mentions of corpse, mentions of stab wounds, season one dynamic, set around season one, small amounts of mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboswaggins/pseuds/bilboswaggins
Summary: What if Sherlock Holmes was blind?A one-off Daredevil inspired AU, a day-in-the-life of John and Sherlock, if he was blind.





	

John yawned as he slowly shuffled his way into the kitchen. He didn’t bother keeping his steps quiet, Sherlock had such adept hearing it would be the same as if he came stomping in, as he almost wanted to. He was totally drained without his morning cup, and he was only half-aware of his actions as he mechanically got the coffee maker ready.

“About time you got up, I was close to going in there and getting you myself.”

“I was _showering_ , Sherlock.” He leaned on the counter as he waited for the machine, scrubbing a hand over his prickly freshly-shaven face.

“So? It’s not like I can see anything.” Sounding bored, Sherlock leaned back in his seat, tipping the chair just enough so John could see him. His head tilted in his direction, though his eyes didn’t meet his.

John suppressed a snort. “What did you want.”

“I need you to read my emails to me.” The chair scraped as he stood, walking deftly over to the door to the kitchen. “I have a feeling there’s quite a lot of them. Heard it dinging all night.”

“What do you need me for, you know you can hit the button and the screen will be read to you.”

“Yes, but I like your touch. Much better than the robot. More lifelike so it’s easier to tune out.” He smiled innocently in John’s direction.

“Glad I can be so useful.” He pulled down their two mugs and started pouring the coffee, loading the sugar into Sherlock’s cup. “The robot doesn’t stop you from reading my blog though, does it.”

“Well I’m definitely not about to have _you_ read your work to me. You’ll edit it as you say it to hide little details you’ve snuck in.”

“Now why would I do that.” But he smirked to himself as he brought the cups over, pushing Sherlock’s into his chest.

“Clearly you don’t want me to know how very superficial your summations a--” He stopped mid-word, his spine straightening as he sniffed the air. “... You’ve changed your cologne.”

John cleared his throat as he made his way to his chair, sitting and holding his cup to his lips as he spoke. “Yes, I did. I thought I’d-”

“I don’t like it.” Sherlock turned to him, walking closer to his chair and bending above him to sniff again.

It happened a few times, now and again. Whenever John changed his shampoo or spent the night somewhere or spilled a little antiseptic on himself, he would come home to a Sherlock intent on sniffing him. He usually held still and let it happen - easier than fighting him off - but it was an odd sensation, like a bloodhound checking to see if he was clean.

After a second or two, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and grunted a sound of disgust, returning to his laptop. “No, no that won’t work. It’s distracting.”

“Well I’ve run out of my other one, and I had to make due.” John huffed, setting his cup to the side so he could fold his arms. “I’m not about to go around smelling just because you don’t like this particular brand.”

“Don’t like the brand, don’t like the strength, don’t like the combination of ingredients. It’s all around a bad match, you should stop picking your scents based on the cheapest at eye-level.”

“I didn’t-!”

But his protest was only half-hearted. Of course he knew, that’s exactly what he did. He could barely smell it on himself, and he figured it wouldn’t make a difference either way. Clearly, however, he was wrong.

Sherlock unplugged the laptop and brought it over, dumping it in John’s lap uncaringly. He gracefully turned to his own chair and hopped up, sitting on the back and planting his feet firmly in the seat. “Okay, read. Only the most interesting, please.”

Heaving a sigh, John righted the laptop and squinted against the brightness as he pulled up Sherlock’s email program. He was right, there was quite a number there since last they checked. 23 new potential cases.

“Hm.. ‘Help me please, my brother died recently in a car accident, no body found-’”

“Skipped town, debt avoision, boring. Next.” His eyes were closed, but his face remained fully focused.

“How about ‘I think my wife has a secret second family that moved in down the stre-”

Sherlock’s face contorted again, his nose wrinkling as he turned away from him. “You really are going to need to shower that off before I go anywhere with you I can’t _think_ with you smelling everywhere.”

Repressing an eyeroll, John continued down the list. “Let’s see, uh, ‘I’ve joined a club for red heads,’ blah blah blah, ‘paying me for copying out the encyclopedia every week-’”

“Too dull, much too dull, give me some action, a good murder. It’s Sunday morning there must be something happened in this town.” He bounced his leg, impatient.

“To anyone else it would be cause for worry with how eager you are for murders to happen,” John said offhandedly, grabbing his cup again. The little he had was kicking his brain into gear, slowly and sluggishly.

“Murders happen every day, someone has to be there to solve them.” He straightened a little, his head cocking slightly to one side. “And it would seem that someone is not Gavin.”

John glanced to the window, but didn’t bother going to it or asking how he knew. Sherlock could always tell when a car pulled up, which meant any moment footsteps would be thudding up the stairs, sparing him another hour’s debate back and forth as to what makes a case ‘boring.’

“Come in,” Sherlock called before the body behind the door could even knock. There was a pause, and Inspector Lestrade pulled the door open, looking around and nodding to them both.

“Always throws me off when you do that,” he said with a sigh, his shoulders hunched.

“What happened,” John asked, closing the laptop and setting it to the side with his cooling cup.

“A woman was found dead in her hotel room by the cleaning staff this morning. Single irregular stab wound, but no weapon, and the door was found bolted from the inside. It’s nothing major, but…” He trailed off, looking distinctly awkward.

“But,” Sherlock chimed in, enunciating the ‘t’ in a click. “You’re here. Someone high profile?”

“Secretary to an MP. Normally I wouldn’t do this, but we need to get this one over with quickly-”

“Whatever you say.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as he hopped out of his chair, striding quickly to grab his scarf and coat. His movements were so fluid and practised, it was easy to forget half the time that he was blind.

“Grande Terre. I’ll uh, meet you down there, then.” Lestrade turned to John, shrugging a little. John smiled lightly, waving as he retreated back down the stairs the way he had come.

“I’ll go hail us a cab,” Sherlock said, tying his scarf on. “You go duck your hair under the tap.”

“What-?” John blinked, pausing in the middle of grabbing his cup. “You can’t be serious.”

“A woman is dead, John. Do you really want her killer to get away just because her detective can’t properly concentrate?” He tutted, striding quickly out of the door and down the stairs without another word.

John stared after him, looked over to the kitchen sink, and back down the stairs.

\--

His lips firmly pressed together in a thin line, John resolutely kept his eyes focused outside the window of the cab, refusing to look at Sherlock at all. He could feel his attention on him, could sense him trying not to laugh beside him.

The cab bumped on down the roads toward the hotel, and to his credit, Sherlock waited until they were almost there before finally breaking down.

“I can’t believe you actually did it,” he said with a slight laugh, just as a drop of water rolled from John’s wet hair down the back of his neck.

“Of course I did it, you made me think a murderer would go free if I didn’t,” John snapped, smoothing aside some wet hair from his forehead.

“Obviously I would have been able to solve it with your terrible cologne, I’m not completely dependent on vacuum conditions, I’d never get anything done.” He grinned to himself.

John huffed, jaw clenching. “You’re a nightmare, you know that? A bloody nightmare.”

“You’re just far too easy,” he said, hand reaching for the door as the cab slowly rolled to a stop.

After paying their fare, John climbed out of the car, finding somehow Sherlock had gotten away from him in that short span of time. He blinked, turning and scanning the people on the street, a pulse of worry shooting through him.

At the flat, the morgue, their usual restaurants, he had no trouble. He was so used to the terrain that he had no difficulties maneuvering around without knocking into things. Here, however, was entirely new. Sherlock had proven himself to be more than capable many different occasions, but John still couldn’t suppress the anxiety as he took off at a quick walk to look for him.

The entrance hall was large and shining, its sheer vastness throwing him off briefly as he stepped in the rotating doors. The floors alone were gorgeous, a slick marble with small rose-gold diamonds laid in every few feet. Three layers of crown molding supported the tiers of the ceiling, stretching high up and housing a crystal chandelier, twinkling rainbows in the light streaming in through the large windows.

He could only pause a moment to appreciate however before he was looking again, mind already conjuring up horrible images of Sherlock being hit by a car or being hit in the face with a door or falling in an open man-hole….

“I beg your pardon-?”

“Oh- I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I thought you were- well I’m looking for someone so I thought I was near the front desk, completely my fault…”

Sherlock’s voice carried low across the hall, and John looked up to find him bent over and apologizing to a member of staff, subtly slipping something into his pocket. Somehow when John wasn’t looking he had put on his blacked out sunglasses and, apparently, stolen his old walking cane.

“Oh… Oh, quite alright,” the concierge inclined his head, clearly seeing for the first time he was reprimanding a blind person. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m just looking for my friend, he must have gone off somewhere and I didn’t notice… He’s short, short hair, probably wearing a large sweater...” The cock was doing a fairly convincing job of looking helpless, banging his own cane on the floor as he took a few shaky steps forward, as though nervous to try and navigate through the rush of people coming in and out of the hotel lobby.

He certainly better have good reasons for deliberately losing him like this.

“There you are,” he called, jogging the last few steps to make it over to them. “Thank you for standing with my friend here,” he said to the concierge, who was looking confused and somewhat relieved. “Can’t even nip to the loo without you wandering into trouble, can I?”

But Sherlock was smiling innocently, and reached forward (more clumsily than usual) to take John’s arm, winding his own around it. John felt a slight heat in his face as he smiled politely at the now awkward-looking concierge.

“Excuse us,” he said, and tugging on John’s arm, he let him pretend to lead them away, further into the hotel itself.

Once they were out of eye and earshot, Sherlock dropped his arm, cocking his head as he listened for something.

“When did you steal my cane.” John asked dryly, willing the slight blush away.

“I had it with me in the cab, you were too busy sulking at the window to notice,” he muttered, his fingertips stretched out and touching the wall in the small corridor they turned down, feeling for something as they walked.

“I think diversions like that are the only reasons you bring me along with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, 50% at best.” He found the button, and stopped in front of the elevator with a large golden plaque above which read ‘STAFF.’ Pulling the small card he had stolen from the concierge out of his back pocket, he slid it in the slot. It beeped green, and the doors slid open.

“Laid the helpless thing on a bit thick this time, didn’t you,” John asked pointedly, holding the door and entering after Sherlock.

“Floor five, please.” He gestured vaguely at the buttons, all flat surfaced without even braille indications of numbers. John jabbed the right button with his knuckle. “Public displays of affection tend to make people uncomfortable, I didn’t want eyes lingering on us for too long.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, I’ve got to have a hand on my Seeing-Eye John. How else am I ever to find my way around the big complicated world.”

“Amazing how many people that that act fools.” He watched, curiously, as Sherlock felt for the hand railing lining the lift, sliding his fingers around them. In moments, he produced a small velvet bag, sounding like it was full of marbles.

“People will believe anything comforting,” he said, tucking it into his coat.

\--

John stood at the back of the room next to Lestrade, hands behind his back as he watched Sherlock bent over the body, his gloved hands very delicately trailing over the body. Greg turned to glance at him, then turned back to him again, blinking.

“Did he push you into a fountain or something?”

“What? Oh-” John sighed, reaching up and touching his still damp hair. The prospect of explaining to another human being that he was duped into sticking his head in the sink was far too embarrassing to go through with. “Er, long story.”

He’d be damned if Sherlock wasn’t hiding a self-satisfied smirk over there.

“Not sure I want to know.” Greg shook his head once, then looked over his shoulder. A few officers stood outside, bored, at either side of the door. “Listen, I’m gonna go talk to the hotel manager downstairs. You got about five minutes alone to do whatever it is you are gonna do.”

John nodded, and Lestrade exited, closing the door behind him. With his muffled voice and the sound of multiple footsteps leaving behind the door, it seemed as though he took one or both of the officers with him.

Sherlock seemed engaged in what he was doing, feeling around the woman’s night-stand and luggage. So he pulled out his phone, scrolling and reading a little about the MP to which the unfortunate assistant was assigned, looking for anything that might prove relevant. He was about to bring it up, when Sherlock called for his attention.

“John.” Sherlock hovered above the body, lying face down and sprawled on the hotel bed.

He walked over, eyeing the single, blood drenched stab wound.

“Describe the body for me.”

John blinked. “You’ve just felt her, what do you need from me?”

“I _can’t see_ , John, I can’t get every detail there is. What if she were bright yellow, I wouldn’t have any idea. Come on, details, details. What colour is her hair, does she have freckles, what brand of shoes is she wearing, anything.” He spoke quickly, his fingertips running over one of her hands, pinching each fingertip individually.

Pursing his lips, John leaned over to get a look at her shoes as he spoke. “Er, well, she’s blonde, medium-length hair styled quite nicely…” He carefully flipped back a lock from her face to get a good look. “Nope, no freckles. Her outfit is black and tailored, and her shoes are those black ones with the red heels, I dunno the brand name.”

Sherlock nodded, letting the hand drop back to the bed. “As always you are completely invaluable. I mean almost everything you just said was wrong but it was good to be confirmed in what I had suspected.”

John’s mouth fell open slightly, indignantly. “You can’t possibly contradict me, you can’t tell!”

“I suppose that’s the problem with relying on your eyes too much, you simplify, you assume.” He reached up to her head, running gloved fingers through the hair. “Her hair is dyed, I can feel a slight film on the strands where she used the colour staying shampoos, a little too often from what I can tell, it feels very frayed and damaged from flat ironing and constant chemical application. Leaning toward a mousey brown natural colour.”

His fingers touched her back, dancing around the wound and hole in the black fabric. “Her shoes are high quality counterfeit, I can smell the lower quality leather. The true original Louboutin has a very defined and controlled arch but this one has imperfections, squared corners and poor stitchwork, therefore counterfeit. Which means she wants to look good and high quality but can’t afford originals, going by the pearl necklace she’s in a habit of wearing which is also a fake.”

“She’s not wearing pearls,” he interrupted, gently nudging her shoulder to check a second time and make sure there wasn’t anything there.

“Not anymore,” Sherlock said, turning to grin at him.

The door to the room beeped and the handle turned, Greg Lestrade and an officer striding into the room. John stood, backing away from the body and instinctively holding out a hand toward Sherlock - just in case.

“Well, find anything interesting?” Lestrade stood with his thumbs in the pockets of his trousers, frowning as he looked over the undisturbed body.

“Interesting, no. But your difficulties are done with.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the velvet bag, tossing it lazily in Lestrade’s general direction. He dove a bit to catch it, and pulled the drawstring open. “She’s also missing a laptop belonging to a certain member of Parliament. If I were you I’d lock down the building before the cleaning staff exit and find the small woman who is hiding a bloodied ice pick. John?”

He extended his forearm, and John quickly crossed the room, winding his arm around his. Tugging gently, he helped lead him past Lestrade, who was holding up a small string of pearls with bewilderment, and through the officers to the hallway.

“Five minutes, I was gone five minutes!” John heard Lestrade huff to the officers, and grinned, leading Sherlock down the hall to the elevator for guests.

The doors slid open, and he waited until they were inside to release his arm and speak. “That’s absolutely amazing, you know. Every time you do it.”

“They’re all going to blame you for my having such a big head,” he replied, his voice lower than his usual speaking voice.

“I don’t care - it’s true.”

The ride was silent the rest of the way, John standing with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused on the numbers slowly ticking down to the ground floor. When the doors opened, he walked beside Sherlock, touching his elbow gently to steer him if it looked like he was about to run into someone veering off their likely course.

They reached the street and John hailed a cab, but his cane stuck out in front of him as he ducked to get inside. “This one’s mine,” Sherlock said, ducking into it himself and rolling down the window. “There’s a few errands I’ve got to run. Meet me at Angelo’s tonight, I’ll text when I know when.”

With that, the door window rolled up, and the cab sped away, leaving John standing in the street, watching it disappear into traffic.

\--

John took the long way to get to the restaurant, enjoying the walk in the night air. The lights were nice, a dull orangey glow, oddly comforting as the last dredges of light streaked down into the horizon. He was a few minutes late, but that was fine, he considered it payback for having his cab stolen and his head drenched that morning.

As he approached the restaurant, he saw him, sitting in the booth by the window with a candle’s light dancing on his face. This was one of the rare times he could see Sherlock without being noticed, could really look at him without worrying he’d comment on the sudden elevation in heart-rate or the heat that would rush to his face.

Just looking at him felt… warm. He knew there was nothing between them, there couldn’t be, not when he’d openly shut him down those few months ago when they had first met here. But this was something different from attraction. Attraction was still there, but this was more, a more comfortable, settled feeling. Like sinking into an armchair or relaxing by a fire, like a morning cup of coffee or falling into bed at the end of a long day. A lived-in warmth. A familiarity warmth.

Bastard really made it difficult to stay mad at him.

John pushed the door to the restaurant open, and waved a hello to Angelo himself as he slid into the booth across from Sherlock.

“You’re late,” he hummed, finishing the text he was typing and pocketing his phone.

“Walking,” he answered with a shrug. “It’s a nice night.”

“It is. .. We can walk home, then, if you want. But you’ll have to reprise your role as Seeing-Eye John, I don’t quite know all the bumps and cracks from here to Baker Street.” He was smiling, a softness to his voice that was only there when he was truly checked out of work-mode.

“Things like this, that’s why people talk,” he teased half-heartedly, suddenly very aware of how date-like this evening was sounding.

Sherlock only smiled briefly, and pulled a small box from his side and slid it across the table. “Open it.”

John blinked in confusion - was he missing a date? Some sort of gift exchange? Was it his birthday? - but picked the small package up. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. He picked at the paper until it slid off, and he held up the box. “Is this… A new cologne?”

“I went to the shops and picked one I felt would suit you.” He sounded off-handed, but there was a slight tension to his body, and he was leaning forward slightly.

He opened the box and pulled out the tiny bottle, sniffing it. It did smell wonderful, polished and not too overpowering.

“Mrs. Hudson tells me that the bottle is the shade of blue you like,” he added, turning his face toward the restaurant. His ear closer to John. “Colour matters very little to me of course, I just care that I’ll be able to stand being in the same room as you without being distracted by how cheap and poorly made your old scent was--”

“I love it.” John grinned, stowing the bottle back in its box. He really did. It smelled perfect, suited him just as Sherlock said, and it would look very handsome on his shelf. “Thank you.”

“Right.” Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly, and tapped the menu in front of him. “You didn’t get the penne last time, you should really try it this time.”

His fingers delicately skimmed the braille lettering on the menu in front of him, and John couldn’t stop himself grinning. “Whatever you say.”

**Author's Note:**

> I researched and did my best to portray blindness appropriately; feel free to correct me if you feel I mis-stepped anywhere.
> 
> I am still trying out writing for John and Sherlock in general. If you liked this and/or want to see more, I've got more ideas kicking around, just let me know in the comments. (:


End file.
